Divide Your Sorrows
by Louder Than Words 354
Summary: AIDS is finally taking its toll, and Mark and Roger are being left alone. This time, though, they might not have their friendship to help them survive. Fourth in the series. M for mature themes and language. Mark & Roger friendship.
1. Prologue

**Here begins the fourth part of our series!! This series began with "Break With Tears", followed by "Walk Beside Me", and then "Song In My Heart". If you haven't read the other parts of this series, it is strongly recommended that you do in order to understand exactly what is going on!!**

**Now, to all our faithful readers:**

**Thank you so much for your support of our work and for sticking with us so long! We really appreciate it! And we greatly hope that you enjoy this story as well as you have enjoyed the others! **

**All our love!**

* * *

Prologue

_How did we get here?_

Mark stood. All tear-stained eyes rested on him.

"So…um…a few years ago, Thom Collins met the love of his life, Angel Dumont Shunard. He—she—was in Collin's life for a brief time, but I can't really separate them in my mind. There isn't much I can say about Collins that wasn't said through Angel.

"I stood at Angel's funeral and said a eulogy. I told a story that would make people laugh, because I believe that what stood out about both these people was their ability to laugh and smile life away. So today, I'll tell you a story about Collins. I'll laugh when I want to cry, because that's what Collins would've done.

"When I first met Thomas Collins, I thought he was the biggest asshole on earth."

_Laughter._

"I hadn't left home long before that, and was killing the money my mother had given me going from one hotel to another. Collins and I were stuck waiting for a subway next to each other—me with all my luggage, him with a cigarette.

"I was used to small-city interactions. So, it caught me off-guard when Collins said, 'Boy, with all them bags, and that scared-as-hell expression on your face, you're gonna get your ass kicked all the way back to whatever small-town nowhere you got thrown out of.'

"I thanked him curtly and rudely for the warning. In my head, I was thinking 'God, no on here cuts a guy any slack. And for all I know, this guy could be the one to jump me any second.'

"But then, he clapped me on the shoulder, laughing, and pulled me into a one-armed hug. Me—a complete stranger. He said, 'I'm just playing with you, boy! But hey, you look lost. If you're looking for somewhere to crash tonight, come with me. My roommate should be there.'

"You can imagine I was hesitant to go home with the first big black guy in New York who hadn't greeted me by fingering a switchblade. But then, we sat down on the subway and rode together; he wouldn't shut the hell up. His easy talking made me more comfortable and I thought, why the hell not.

"So, I went home with Collins that day. And I never left.

_Laughter._

"Collins was more than any of us. He alone believed in all of us as a family when we were falling apart. Yes, I'll miss him; I'll miss him impossibly, because he was always the one holding us together. But I know he's home now. He was always an angel, and then he found his own Angel. Now they're together. So we miss him-- but who can begrudge him what he's found?

"The last thing Collins said to me was, 'Nah, it doesn't hurt. It feels good. I don't hurt no more, Mark. But you hurt, Mark. That's 'cause you worry too much. But I hear Angel now, more than ever, and she's telling you to smile.'

"Collins spoke a few more words to us before he left. But those words are what I really wanted to share, and what I want us to remember as we grieve for Collins: he's speaking to us, he and Angel both, and they're telling us to smile."

Mark sat down to the sound of tears. His eyes met Roger's, who was beside him.

Roger alone hadn't smiled throughout the entire eulogy. His arms were around Mimi, who kept her eyes locked on the sky and the grave, as though they were calling her home.

* * *

_Two Months Later_

* * *

Roger was afraid to let his voice echo out into the silence, because he knew that it would quake with unfallen tears, but there were things he had to say.

"The night Mimi died, I wrote out what I wanted to say. But this morning, I realized that all those words meant nothing. I had said all the things that are supposed to be said, but I wasn't saying the things that were in my heart.

"From the start, I denied what was in my heart, and Mimi spent her short time with me putting a stop to that.

"Which is why I couldn't give my prepared speech.

"Mimi came into my life in darkness. She carried with her only a single candle… a single candle… and an internal light that burned through all of my anger and my fear and my depression.

"But, I had become accustomed to the pain, and having someone remind me that there was another way of living, wasn't an easy thing. But there was no saying no to Mimi. If you ever tried, you know what I mean.

"The first night she came in through the door. So I locked it trying to keep her out. Then she wrote me notes, which I ignored, convinced that she'd leave me alone. She found the window. When I shut the window, she managed to slip into my heart.

"And I never quite figured how to get her out of it.

"I'm certain that I never will.

"I wake up, and expect to see her next to me. I come home, and expect to see her there. I call her name, and expect her to answer. I cry, and I expect her to comfort me.

"I'll never understand how she did it, but she managed to make herself such a part of my life that I'm not certain how I've continued to exist without her.

"The rest of the world seems so oblivious to her passing. The sun came up this morning, just like every morning, and tonight it will set, in the same way it sets every night. But I'm stuck in that last moment of her life.

"I remember saying everything you say to someone who's dying. Selfish things. Foolish things. Down right lies.

"She suffered silently through my words and my tears, never letting one of her own fall. And at the end, when I had finally run out of things to say, she made up for my shortcomings, the way she always did, and said everything.

" 'I love you. I've always loved you. And because of that, I'm not going to say goodbye. Just because I'm going, doesn't mean that I'm going to stop loving you. Don't lock the window, because when you don't expect it, I'll slip back in.'

"I couldn't say anything, before she was gone.

"So, I'll say it now.

"Mimi, I love you. And I'll be waiting… but if you don't come back through that window… I guess I'll just have to climb out and come looking for you.

_Silence._

"If I had words of comfort, I would give them. Instead, I must give you the greatest gift that I was ever given.

"Her love.

"And I hope that it can give you, what it has given me.

"Peace… hope… love…life…

_Silence._

Goodbye, love.

* * *

The loft was an empty place that day. Mark and Roger had returned home, but as they walked aimlessly from place to place, pouring themselves drinks that they didn't touch and cleaning things that didn't need to be cleaned, they still seemed to be wandering in an unfamiliar place.

They danced a strange ballet around each other, careful not to say words should they break down. They were strangers, not only to each other, but to themselves. How were they supposed to pick up the pieces and go on, now that so many of the pieces were missing?

It was Mark who first attempted to crack the barrier. Roger was sitting on the couch, the mute guitar at his side. The songwriter's eyes were misted over, but he didn't cry.

Mark leaned against their table and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Roger…" he coaxed. "We can't just not talk. Let's talk about something, anything. I don't know if you can talk about her, but it doesn't have to be about her…I just know that we need to move on."

"So soon to move on," muttered Roger. "I just can't help thinking…"

"Thinking what?"

"That I should've been here with her, at the end. But for months I was gone. For months, I didn't even think about her, I just thought about…"

"Me?" asked Mark, his voice hard.

Roger had been thinking that too. He didn't want to let the word slide between his lips and have it taken as an accusation, but he had nothing left to say to Mark except for that accusation.

"Yes," he breathed. "I was so busy with you…I forgot about her."

Mark didn't say a word, but he turned his eyes away from his roommate. Roger clutched his hands around his own shoulders because Mimi wasn't there to do it anymore.

"I should've been there for her…I shouldn't have been dealing with all of your shit."

Mark turned away. He went silently to the stairs. He had climbed the first few steps to his bedroom when he turned back around and spoke to the back of Roger's head.

"Then next time, don't bother."

He slammed the door before he could notice Roger turning to look at him.


	2. Chapter 1: The Filmmaker Cannot See

Chapter One

"The Filmmaker Cannot See, and the Songwriter Cannot Hear"

Roger

_How long does it take for a wound to become a scar?_

_At what point does an absence become customary?_

_When does a friend become a stranger?_

…_Or even an enemy?_

Roger had been drinking to forget, but tonight, being drunk had only made him more pensive. Questions, which in his sober mind had only been distant echoes, were suddenly shouted at him from shadowy corners, and poured down upon his head by the inky darkness.

He was blind with confusion and liquor, but he managed to stumble through the door. Mark was a shadow on the couch, a shadow that stirred when Roger entered—a shadow whose very posture pointed out that it was well after two in the morning.

They didn't greet each other. Roger crossed to the table and dropped his keys onto it. The metallic clatter broke obtrusively into the stillness.

"Where have you been?" asked Mark, his voice thick and slurred. He didn't even raise his head to look at Roger as he spoke.

Roger leaned against the wall, one hand clutching his forehead to keep the room from spinning. "What do you care, Mother Mark?" he replied quietly, bitterly. "You're just as drunk as I am."

"What do I care?" Mark hissed. He rose slowly from the couch, his body slipping through the darkness like a breath of fog.

Roger drew back against the wall. He could see the threat in Mark's demeanor; he had never sensed the potential for true violence in Mark before this moment.

"Just go to bed, Mark." Roger murmured. At the bar, he had already won two fights; did it really have to be three?

Mark was shaking so violently that Roger wondered if he was seizing. He almost reached out to help his one-time friend, but those days were over. They were only strangers now, enemies chained together by the same tragedy.

Mark stopped walking and fell sideways against a wall. "Can't sleep," he muttered. "How can I, when you never fucking come home anymore, and I don't know if you're lying on a street corner dead?"

"Shit, Mark, is this all we can talk about anymore?!" yelled Roger, his voice reverberating through the hollow void of the loft. He pushed off the table and took a few, quick, insecure steps in Mark's direction. "You can't have a simple conversation with me without bringing it up! You know why? Because you don't give a fuck about anything else! You don't care about me, you don't care about you, you don't care about… about… anything!"

Mark closed the gap between them. They stood a few inches away from each other, and the short stretch of air dividing them was clotted with the stench of alcohol. "Go fuck yourself," said Mark in a low voice. "You know nothing about me, how can you tell me what I do and don't care for?"

"What then, Mark? Why don't you tell me what you care about?"

Mark's eyes flashed, but when a response didn't rapidly spring to his lips, Roger provided it for him.

"Death? You're too obsessed with dying to actually spend time living anymore! _Why don't you just go join them?!_"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to call them back and swallow them whole.

Mark raised his hand, curling it into a fist as he went. "How _dare_ you, Roger? I'm no coward! I'm not like you!"

Roger didn't flinch away from Mark's fist—a result of all the alcohol in his veins. "Don't think you're so high and mighty. Look me straight in the eye and tell me you haven't at least considered it, huh?"

"I haven't."

"Then, there is no semblance of trust between us any longer."

Mark's voice was so soft that Roger could barely make out what he was saying. "Guess not."

Immeasurable stores of hurt were dormant in both pairs of eyes.

They stood in silence until the anger dissipated, melting away into loneliness and emptiness. Mark loosened his fist and turned away, disgusted with the entire situation. "I'm going to bed."

"Why bother? We'll just have to get up again tomorrow," murmured Roger.

"Fuck that."

They didn't laugh. They didn't smile. They simply parted.

* * *

Mark paced the floor. Roger could hear him from the other side of the door. His footsteps were heavy with all the things they had left unsaid; his soul even heavier with all the things they had.

Roger was still too drunk to sleep, and too angry to pass out. Instead, he sank down on the couch and waited until Mark's footsteps became a pattern his ears were so accustomed to that he stopped hearing it all together.

Mark had left his glass on the table. It was still mostly full, even though the bottle sitting next to it was empty.

Roger lifted the glass and downed the remainder of the gin. He imagined that his lips touched exactly where Mark's had; he peered over the rim of the glass to examine the loft in the same way Mark had seen it.

But he was incapable of seeing with any eyes apart from his own.

The touch of their lips to the glass was the most contact they'd had since the funeral.

Divided not by space, but by the walls they had built to keep the other out.

Roger knew that it took weeks for a scar to form over a cut, and it took months to stop waiting to hear the voice of a lost lover, but it took only a moment, a breath, or a word, for a friend to become an enemy.

He wrapped his hands around his ears, unwilling to listen to the sound of his own breathing anymore.


	3. Chapter 2: Running Out the Door

**Hey everyone! Hopefully everyone read and enjoyed our recent one-shots, _Scars _and _Handcuffs! _If not...we'd love you forever and ever if you did. :) **

Chapter 2

Mark

"Running Out the Door"

A year had passed since Mimi's death. A year and two months had passed since Collins's.

Mark shaded his eyes with his hands. The sun poured into them with enough blinding intensity to make his head throb. He already had a headache from his hangover, but he'd grown accustomed to that ache. The sun was something he'd been avoiding. It hit him with the force of a sledgehammer; even the walk to the cemetery hadn't given his eyes time to adjust.

The cemetery was a small plot of tranquility planted in the rabid tangle of the city. Not that Mark found much peace here. He wandered through the trees, letting them drip their flowers and perfumes into the April air around him. It was easy to forget the sirens in the distance, the shadows of skyscrapers, the endless procession of footsteps that wandered through New York City.

But it was impossible to forget death.

Death haunted Mark everywhere lately—there was no place tranquil enough for him to escape it, especially not the cemetery.

But here he was, and just ahead of him were the people he had come to visit. Collins's grave was like the man himself: noticeable. He lay next to Angel in the shade of a willow tree.

Mark sank to his knees between the two graves.

_United at last. _

How could it be that Angel's death had been easier to swallow? Maybe it had been Collins's indomitable spirit, his loud, obnoxious laughter, or his constant presence in their lives. Something about Collins had convinced Mark that the man would outlive them all.

But Collins had faded so quickly. He just blinked out, another star gone from the night sky. Collins had been at peace with death at the end—but Mark and Roger hadn't been at peace with letting him go. Mark's ordeal in D.C. and his struggle with heroin had finally wound down just a few days before Collins's death, so it had felt unbelievably sudden, like a punch to the face a second after recovering from a kick to the stomach.

Mark looked silently at the graves. He used to speak to them, but not anymore. He wasn't sure they heard anymore.

At least he knew Angel and Collins were together. And, at least, after Collins's death, the family had managed to survive. The sting of his passing had eventually given way to numbness and remembrance.

But another death, it seemed, had yet to lose its sting.

Mark's gaze drifted over to the small, sweet grave beside a natural growth of flowers—Mimi's.

That was what had torn them apart. Roger had lost his mind, his heart, his will to cling to life.

And Mark?

Mark had lost one more of his vicarious connections to life. It was a further recession into darkness. There was only one blow left now. Once Roger was gone, there would be nothing left…so Mark might as well start seeking nothingness before the end came.

Roger had been right—Mark _had _considered ending it all. But it made no difference, because Mark would be the end of everything anyway. Once they were all gone, Mark would slip away.

The cemetery stirred with a remnant of life. Mark watched as the lonely, sensuous figure, dressed fully in skintight black, made her way to Mimi's grave.

Maureen. Mark had only seen her a few times since the funeral. Part of him hoped she wouldn't notice him, but part of him wanted her to reach out and touch him more than anything.

"Mark?" she whispered, crossing from the path. Dew from the grass had collected on the toes of her leather boots. She stood over him, resting her thin hand on his shoulder. "You ok, sweetie?"

It was a stupid, empty question.

"Yeah, sure. Fine."

He reached up to rub the tears from his face, only to find that there weren't any there.

He shrugged her hand off as he stood. When he was standing beside her, they shared a numb, awkward embrace.

Maureen stepped away and regarded her one-time boyfriend, taking in the sight of his bloodshot eyes and unsteady body. "You got a hangover?" she asked, her voice quavering slightly.

Mark shrugged in response.

She looked away. "You never drank as much as the rest of us," she muttered. "You were never like that…"

Mark immediately went on the defensive, his eyes hardening. "So what? I'll drink however much I damn well please."

Maureen stiffened. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, taking a small step back.

"Not you too!" Mark snapped. "I'm sick of people bullshitting concern for me. Since when do you care, Maureen Johnson?! You never gave a _fuck _about how I was doing—not when we dated, not after we broke up, and not now."

Her hand connected sharply with the side of his face. He reeled back, more stunned by the contact than actually hurt.

When he looked back up at her, her eyes were filled with tears.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Mark Cohen?! This tore _all _of us apart, not just you. I never knew you to be so fucking selfish. But now you are. You don't give a _damn_ anymore.

"You're not the boy I fell in love with once. You're _definitely _not the man who became one of my best friends in the world. You and Roger are strangers, have you noticed? To each other. To us. For god's sake, shouldn't you realize there's something fucking _wrong _when you two, who were closer than any of us ever were, don't talk anymore? You fucking hate each other! You get drunk and beat the crap out of each other! Do you think something might be _a little bit _wrong?! It's a huge flashing signal to me!"

Mark listened in silence. He watched the movement of her lips and the breeze toying with her hair. He listened to the lilt of her voice, if not to the actual words.

How could she be so alive?

"And you know what else? I don't give a—"

He cut her off by grabbing her face with both hands. Before either of them knew it, he had pressed his mouth against hers—a hard, desperate touch, full of loneliness and longing.

To his surprise, she surrendered and kissed him back.

When they broke apart, they were both shaking. Then she leaned in and whispered into his ear, her lips a hair's breadth away from his skin.

"I did that because you needed it," she breathed. "Save your tenderness for someone who needs it as much as you just did. Maybe then, you can come in search of my…" For a second, he expected her to say love. "…forgiveness."

She pulled back slightly, keeping her face close to his. It looked for a moment as though she was going to kiss him again, but instead she only pressed her cheek to his and pulled him into a gentle embrace.

"Goodbye, Mark."

His arms fell limply to his side when she disengaged. He wanted to reach after her; he was so hungry for human company. Instead, he just watched. She was smiling that sad smile at him from a few feet away.

"I'll tell Joanne you say hi."

With that, she left, a beautiful black form drifting seamlessly through death.

Mark was left standing alone.

* * *

Roger was home when Mark wandered back to the loft in the later part of the evening. It was surprising—Roger was never home. He wasn't out in the main area; he was in his bedroom. Mark didn't need to see Roger to know that his roommate was there. Something hung in the air, a constant presence that Mark had come to recognize like the back of his hand.

Mark dropped onto the couch. He had another hellish migraine.

He didn't even stir when he heard footsteps approaching.

A shadow started to come over the couch. By the way that it swayed and quivered, Mark could tell that Roger was trying to shake off a hangover too.

Mark tilted his head to the side and watched as Roger sat on the table by the couch. Once, it would have been a casual, friendly gesture, a bored friend seeking conversation. But they didn't have conversations anymore—not casual ones, not friendly ones.

"I'm selling the guitar," Roger said flatly.

Mark rolled his head back and stared up at the ceiling. "Don't need my permission," he said.

"Wasn't asking it. I was just letting you know."

"Why?"

"I don't know, do I need a goddamned reason for everything?!"

Mark squeezed his eyes together to assuage the mounting pressure in his head. "Shit. Stop yelling, my head hurts. I'm not in the mood to fight."

Roger let out a sigh. "Yeah. Me neither. I'm too fucking tired for this."

It was a rare, passive end to one of their exchanges. Mark fought down the urge to reach out and put a hand on Roger's shoulder, to tell the songwriter that it was ok.

But he didn't…because it wasn't ok, and it wasn't going to be.

Mark watched the shadow as it left again. Its stooped shoulders and sighing breaths revealed something different than anger: disappointment.

_You wanted me to tell you not to sell the guitar. You wanted me to tell you that you were out of your mind…that I'd be here for you and we'd figure out how to pay for things together. _

_You wanted me to be like I used to be. _

_But this world is too dark and lonely for the old Mark Cohen to survive. _

Mark pressed his face into the couch cushion and willed himself to sleep.


	4. Chapter 3: One Song to Leave Behind

Chapter Three

"One Song to Leave Behind"

Roger

When Roger lay down to go to sleep, his head was pounding. It was not a sensation that he was unaccustomed to, over the last several weeks one pain or another had constantly plagued him. He knew that the pursuit of sleep was a futile one. The sick ache behind his temples was just distracting enough to keep him from dreams.

The insomnia, the headaches, it was a result of thinking too much, he knew that if Mimi had still been here, she would've told him to just lie down and stop worrying. The delicate touch of her fingertips would have been enough to steal away his consciousness, and he would've surrendered to her.

But, she wasn't here anymore, so he went right on thinking.

As he stared into the darkness, he realized that he could hear Mark's soft breathing in the other room. It was enough to drive him mad. Once, he would've found the other man's sleep comforting, but now, he found no solace in Mark's slow exhalations.

Mark was nothing more than a reminder of the way things had once been.

And remembering the way things were wasn't doing Roger any good. It only served to break his heart.

He rose from the bed. He wasn't about to sleep tonight, so there was no point in being chained between the sheets.

He could go and drink until he passed out, at least then he would stop thinking. Except he was tired of drinking alone, so instead, he decided to wander the empty apartment.

He moved into the living room where Mark slumbered so peacefully. Roger couldn't hide his jealousy. Mark seemed to have no problem sleeping. He wasn't haunted by images of the woman he had loved, even after she was dead. He wasn't facing his own destruction. And he wasn't waiting for the sun to come up so he could go sell a piece of his soul at some second-rate pawnshop.

_Were there first-rate pawnshops? _Roger thought bitterly.

Perhaps it was his presence in the living room, but suddenly a fragment of the conversation he had been having with Mark only a few hours prior came back to him.

_Why?_

_I don't know, do I need a goddamned reason for everything?_

But that had been a lie.

Roger had dozens of reasons to sell the guitar, but they were reasons you told a friend, not a stranger who you just happened to share an apartment with.

_It's killing me, Mark, killing me to remember how things were._

_That guitar is part of the past, and I'm sick of having only a past and no future. I might as well get rid of the past now, while I still have some control over part of my life. _

_I can't even look at it without getting dizzy. I realize that the music is gone and I just want to break down and cry._

It was like a multiple-choice test, with the correct answer being "all of the above".

They were all reasons that Mark could have easily talked him out of… but he had chosen not to…

It was the first time in weeks that he had stretched out his hand to Mark, tried to tell him that he was drowning, and Mark had turned away.

What had he expected?

Now, at least, his hatred of his one-time friend was valid in his eyes.

Mark rolled over on the couch, and seemed to stir. Roger retreated back into his own room, rather than risk having to deal with him.

But, even here with the door closed, he felt like he was still being watched. He searched the room, desperate to find the source of his discomfort.

It was only after he tore the room apart, that he realized it was the black leather case leaning in the corner.

The guitar stared at him with absent eyes. The soulless instrument seemed capable of taking his own soul away.

Once, Roger had believed that, if offered the chance, he would have sold his soul in order to posses music.

On the days when nothing else had made sense, he had known only one consolation. He would play until his hands went numb, sing until his voice fell silent, and, even then, gone on dreaming of melodies yet in experienced. Music made him feel like his very soul had fractured into a hundred pieces and each piece was attached to the swell of a note, and pulled from him.

Afterward, he always felt so drained, as if there was nothing left of himself. Everything he was had been stolen away by the melody and only a hollow shell remained. He finally fell down from heaven, and was only human again, his wings of music gone, as the sound dissipated into the empty air. It was the most phenomenal feeling in the entire world.

It was a feeling he had never been able to express, or share with anyone. Whenever he described it to someone, they thought him insane.

No line had ever existed between the music and his life; without one, the other ceased to be.

The ripples of notes were now too poignant, and the soft dribble of sound was too overwhelming. Music was no longer a haven, it was tainted with memory. He was overcome by thoughts of the way his life had once been, before he had lost Collins and Mimi, and thoughts of the way his life was now, when he was losing Mark.

Today, when he had lifted his guitar, it was as if he no longer knew how to play. The guitar, which had always been his constant companion, was now, like Mark, a stranger that he lived with, but knew nothing of.

It was locked away in the case now, staring at him through the leather. He knew that one last look at it before he shut it out of his life forever would not break his heart, so long as he did not dare to play it.

Even though it terrified him, he lifted the guitar from the case. He moved slowly, wondering if it would burn him, or if it would infect him with the desire to play again. He stroked the instrument with the softest touch, as if to feel it for the first, and the last time.

Here.

The stain of blood when he'd played so long that his fingers had began to bleed onto the bridge.

Here.

The string he'd replaced when Mimi had broken it, when he'd been teaching her how to play.

Here.

The smallest scratch, nearly invisible to the eye, from when he'd played a concert and been so nervous to go on he'd dropped the guitar just before he walked out on stage.

And here.

The droplets of his tears sat on the surface of the highly polished wood, sparkling in the moonlight like diamonds.

When he looked up, he saw Mark standing in the doorway, appearing abashed that he had been caught looking.

_Say it, Mark, just say the word and I won't sell it. Please. _He begged silently. _I can't stop myself, but if you would only say it…_

But Mark only turned his eyes to the floor and walked away without a word.

The silence between them was the only thing that remained unbroken.

* * *

The next day, Roger carried the guitar seven blocks and placed it on the counter in front of a man whose face was lost in the haze of his unfallen tears.

He traded a piece of his soul, a piece of his past, for seventy-five dollars, and the embrace of meaninglessness.


	5. Chapter 4: The Music Ignites the Night

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Chapter 4

Mark

"The Music Ignites the Night"

Mark sorted through bills robotically. Every folded piece of mail had nothing but numbers on it, high numbers that made his head swim when he thought about how much money he and Roger had.

_They're going to evict us. There's no way around it this time. _

As soon as the thought entered his mind, Mark turned numbly to look at the loft that had been his home for the darkest and most meaningful events of his life. It seemed a lackluster place now. It reminded him of a useless dumpster at the end of an alleyway.

_Good riddance. _

But even if he was resigned to being kicked out onto the street, Mark wasn't prepared to starve. He sold film footage to news companies every now and then. The meager amount of money was usually enough to keep him and Roger fed for a couple days. It probably would last longer if they didn't blow every paycheck on alcohol.

More and more, Mark had come to think of those film reels as nothing but the tokens to bring home sustenance. There was no magic in them anymore. Artistry had been buried beneath need: the need to survive, and the need to die.

He had succeeded in sorting the bills into two piles: those he could never hope to pay, and those that might be partially feasible. Soon, they all blurred in his mind. He stared at the piles, letting his forehead bear its weight hard against the palms of his hands. Everything made him tired lately.

The door opened. Mark didn't look up. Then, suddenly, forty dollars were slapped on the table in front of him, and he decided it was time to look up.

Roger had some cash in his own hand. "Food fund, booze fund," he said without a hint of humor in his voice.

"Maybe you should change up that balance a little," said Mark disgustedly.

"You're right." Roger reached down and took a five from Mark's pile. "Now it's better. Food and booze."

"That's not what I meant, dumbass. See all these bills? We're done drinking, or we're done living here."

Roger rolled his eyes, but didn't relinquish his money. He went to the refrigerator and took one of their final two beers. The look he gave Mark as he opened the bottle was pure mockery. "As if you could go without it," he said bitterly, taking a long drink.

Mark didn't answer. When Roger lowered the beer, though, the songwriter had more to say.

"Fucking asshole," he muttered.

Mark had to clench his teeth to keep his temper from flaring completely. He kept his gaze fixed on the table, his head still in his hands. "What the _fuck _is your problem?" he asked quietly. "Can't you give it a rest for two fucking seconds? Can't you ever just leave me the fuck alone?"

"I'll tell you what my problem is," Roger said, wandering over to the table and leaning on it casually. "I just sold my guitar. When I ask you about that, you don't give a damn. When I come here with _my _money, offering some of it to you and keeping some of it for myself, _that's _when you decide to be responsible. _That's _when you decide you'll take care of things. How about taking care of things when it matters, Mark?"

Roger took another drink. His words had all been said in a steady monotone, betraying no emotion.

Mark leaned back in his chair. He stared long and hard at Roger. The former musician was in a relaxed position, drinking his beer with his lithe form silhouetted against the window, but Roger himself wasn't relaxed. He wasn't at peace. He just didn't give a damn anymore.

Roger, aware of Mark's stare, raised his beer bottle in a sarcastic salute towards his roommate.

"So how long do you think this can continue, Roger?" asked Mark finally. "How long are we going to continue living like this? Because this isn't a life."

"The point of living is to die eventually. So why get all settled in?"

"That's not what you used to say."

"And you didn't used to say things like 'don't need my permission' to the idea of me selling my soul."

"If it doesn't matter to you anymore, why should it matter to me?"

Roger abandoned his casual posture now. He was facing Mark frontally, the waning light behind him framing his form. "Don't you get it? This is what happens when we both fall at the same time. When it was just one of us, it could still work out. It's not gonna work out this time."

Mark stood. It wasn't a fast, confrontational movement; it was the natural movement that would allow him to pace restlessly. "And why? Because you said I was obsessed with death. And you're just obsessed with memories. Well, I'm not a memory. I'm fucking alive, and I'm in front of you."

"Alive. Or something like that. When's the last time you felt alive, Mark?"

"You see me as a memory and I'll see you as dead. Unless one of us can get past that, we're stuck."

Roger put the beer bottle down on the table. It was empty. He walked around the table, passing by Mark without a glance. He wandered aimlessly, his steps only slightly unsteady, and eventually found his way to a mound of film, photographs, and even some old sheet music in one of the corners by the couches.

Mark was watching from the table. "Don't you dare touch my shit," he said, his voice low.

Roger gave Mark a nonchalant look. Then, he began looking over the end of a filmstrip, passing the thin, negative imprints through his hands.

"Stop touching that!" Mark left the safety of the table and found himself striding across the room, his eyes fixated on Roger's fingers.

Roger squinted, holding the filmstrip close to his eyes. "Old school," he said. "All your old shit."

Mark had felt totally numb all day. He had gone through the motions of life with robotic precision. But now, seeing the film in Roger's hands, he felt his emotions stir. "Damn you, Roger! Let it go!"

He was almost there. But just a breath before his hands reached out and take the film away, Roger's fingers twitched, and two stills tore apart at their connection.

Inexplicably, Mark felt hot tears spring to his eyes. "ROGER!" he shouted, grabbing the reel that the film came from. When Roger refused to let go, tearing more stills when Mark pulled, Mark drew back his fist and punched Roger in the face.

"_Shit!" _Roger exclaimed, falling back into the wall with his hand over his eyes.

Mark didn't watch as the songwriter slid down the wall to the ground. His misted gaze was resting on the images that he couldn't fix, and the film he couldn't save.

Mark turned to Roger, pure malice in his eyes. "_Fuck you. _Why the hell would you do that?" he whispered. "If you want to sell your guitar, that's your business. When I make films now, I feel nothing. These old films are the only things that have any meaning for me anymore."

Roger was still on the ground. When he finally brought his hand down, a bruise was starting to form around his left eye; Mark had put all of his force behind the blow.

"Why?" Roger barked.

"Why what?"

"Why do they matter to you, Mark? Why do they fucking matter? You never look at them anymore!"

"They just do, ok?"

"Give me a good reason."

"I don't owe you anything!"

"One good reason!"

"_Because they're my memories!" _Mark shouted at the floor. "They're all I have, you fucker!"

Roger didn't say anything right away. Instead, his gaze locked with Mark's red eyes for a moment, empty bemusement confronting rage. Then Roger began to laugh.

"You see?" he said bitterly. "See what memory does to us?"

Roger stood up slowly. Mark was rolling up the remaining film into the reel, hatred radiating from his expression and his body stance and his motions.

While Mark was busy, Roger reached down into the film pile again and pulled out a single photograph.

The photo had been stuck at an angle in the middle of a bunch of camera equipment. The crinkled image was folded nearly in half and had bent corners, but the smiles in the picture were bright as day.

It had been taken out on the street, probably by Collins since the photo was pretty old. Mark and Roger hadn't taken many pictures together, since Mark's camera was a film camera, but Collins had gone through a phase when he bought one cheap disposable after another. This was one of the results. It was one of the few pictures where the two best friends weren't doing anything stupid or weird, like Roger wrapping Mark's scarf around his own head or Mark jumping on Roger's back.

They were just smiling. Their arms were draped around each other's shoulder; the touch seemed as natural as breathing, as though the two belonged joined. Some obscure buildings littered the street behind them.

Roger looked at the picture. As he did so, tears starting to push into his own eyes, his hand drifted to his pocket. It emerged with a lighter.

Mark had finally dropped the film reel. He turned back to Roger now, prepared for a full-out fight, but the sight of the photograph stopped him cold. The lighter was an inch away from it.

"Roger…" he said pleadingly, the argument gone from his voice.

Roger took a deep breath. He looked up at Mark, looking strangely sad and completely hopeless.

"Here's what I think of your memories," he said.

He lit a corner and watched it burn.

The fire illuminated in Mark's eyes.

Neither said anything; they only watched as the flame climbed inward, devouring a little bit more of their past with every blackened edge.

But suddenly, Mark's eyes changed color. The light had flared. Roger looked from his roommate's face to the miniscule fire in his hand, and what he saw didn't match.

Mark caught on. Immediately, he and Roger turned, both knowing what they would see.

A corner of the photo had touched a crumpled piece of sheet music that extended from the pile. A second later, their world crashed down around them.


	6. Chapter 5: Nothing to Burn

Chapter Five

"Nothing to Burn"

Roger

_Cherry blossoms were floating down from the heavily laden branches overhead. The flowers fell like snow, coating the path and twisting into Mimi's dark hair. In the last of the evening's light, they appeared crimson instead of pink. As they walked, he slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her closer._

_They wandered that way in silence, as the night crept in. Without realizing it, they had wandered from the path, most likely because they couldn't see it under the carpet of flowers. Now, they were alone, sliding around twisted tree trunks and ducking under low branches._

_Finally, without any word or signal, but communicating silently in the way that people who have become accustomed to each other do, they came to a stop at the top of a hill. Veiled by the low hanging branches, they seemed enclosed in their own private space: a haven in the middle of New York was a rare thing. _

_Roger moved to stand behind her so that he could keep his hands around her waist, and rest his chin on the top of her head. _

_They gazed down at the pond, with the light of the crescent moon reflected on its mirror surface. For some time they stayed like that, content to just rest in each other's company. _

_Mimi finally pulled away from Roger and turned to face him. "Roger?"_

"_Yes." He stepped closer to her, but she took a step away, ensuring that the distance between them remained constant. _

"_I want to ask you to promise me something."_

"_Anything." He murmured sweetly. _

_She scowled, and his eyebrows shot up into a frown. He wasn't sure why she was being so strange. "Don't promise until you know what it is," said Mimi tersely as she nervously folded and unfolded her hands._

_Roger was beginning to become anxious about this entire conversation; never before had Mimi acted so strange, but he assured her that he wouldn't promise until she had finished. _

_Slowly, she inhaled, and chewed on her bottom lip. "Roger, I want you to promise that you're never going to ask me to marry you."_

_He stared at her blankly. "What?"_

"_I don't want you to ask me to marry you, because if you did, I would want to say yes."_

_Roger closed the distance between them again. "And that would be a bad thing?"_

"_Yes. I don't want you to stare at a stupid ring on your finger and feel like you're still tied to me after I'm gone."_

"_Mimi," he reached out his hand to push back the hair from her face, "let's not have this conversation now."_

_She shook her head firmly. "I want to have it now. Roger, I don't want us to get married, because if somebody else makes you happy, I want you to be happy after I'm gone. Okay?"_

_There were tears in her eyes, and his fingers slid up her cheek as if to stop those tears from ever touching her skin. "There's no one else who will ever make me happy the way you do."_

_Mimi rubbed her cheek against his rough palm. "Roger, I don't want you to be chained to me…"_

_He pressed his lips to hers, swallowing her words and her breath. She melted against him. He tangled one hand in her hair and wrapped the other around her back. She met him with such intensity and such passion. Her tongue slipped between his lips, forcing them apart so she could deepen the kiss. _

_They pulled apart several times, but each time they lasted only seconds before they felt the need to be bonded together once more. When they were finally able to break apart, they both knew that Roger would never be able to make that promise to Mimi._

_They fit together too perfectly. Together they were whole, and without her, he would never be complete. _

_There was never going to be anyone else._

"_I love you." He breathed._

"_I love you, too." _

_Their embrace brought them tumbling down into the blossoms. Flowers crushed against their faces and stuck to their clothing. _

_With hands and hearts twisted together they lay on their backs and stared up into the sky. _

"_Hey, Roger, I want you to make me a promise."_

_He rolled onto his side so that he could look at her. "Anything."_

_She reached into her pocket and pulled something out. She wrapped her hand around his. "Keep this."_

_When she withdrew her hand, he found a small, white candle sitting in the center of his palm. He closed his fingers around it again. "Of course."_

_They both knew that single stub of candle would bind him to her forever, more than a wedding band ever could._

_

* * *

_

For Mimi, Roger had lit a candle. For Mark, he lit a building on fire.

In the span of a second, the flames had jumped from the papers to the table, and then to the posters on the wall, and from there, it moved to their cheap curtains. It took moments for the apartment they had lived in for years to be transformed into the gates of hell.

Mark was transfixed by the sight of the flames as they leapt higher and higher, eating through their scant possessions with surprising speed. He stared into the flames, as though he was considering allowing the fire to consume him.

"Mark! Move!" Roger shouted and raced toward the door, but Mark didn't move, staring at something obscured by the flame. "Mark!" He grabbed Mark by the arm and dragged him from the apartment, never bothering to see what Mark had been staring at.

They stumbled down the stairs, the black smoke making them blind and their fear making them clumsy.

Finally, they erupted into the New York night, coughing, spluttering, and unable to catch their breath.

Sirens roared in the distance, and for once, Roger didn't shut out the noise of their wail, but instead tried to determine if they were coming closer.

Mark and Roger stood side by side on the sidewalk staring up at the apartment. The window exploded outward, showering them with shards of burning hot glass as the flames crawled up the side of the building toward the roof.

Suddenly, Mark started laughing hysterically. He was laughing so hard that he nearly fell over, and it was only when he didn't slump to the ground, because Roger's hand was still wrapped around his shoulder, that Roger realized he had yet to let go of Mark. He waited until Mark had managed to stop laughing before he removed his hand.

"What?" Roger asked as Mark took his glasses off to wipe tears out of the corner of his eyes.

Mark chuckled softly, but it came out like a growl, low in the back of his throat. "It's nothing… just… I thought that we had nothing left to burn."

Roger reached up, patted Mark gently on the back, and then turned to stare back up at the burning apartment.

Their mirror smiles were washed in the glow of the fire.


	7. Chapter 6: Escaping Your Pain

**MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!!! Sorry for the long wait! But we hope this chapter makes up for it!! Our New-Years resolution is to be a little bit speedier with the updates!! Hope you enjoy! All our love! **

Chapter 6

Mark

"Escaping Your Pain"

_He was a nineteen-year-old scrawny white kid who had, on a whim, decided to move in with two black men, one of whom was very large and, as Mark had just discovered, very gay. _

How the hell do I get myself into these things? _Mark wondered at the unfamiliar ceiling. Collins and Benny seemed genuine enough, but who knew? Maybe they were just getting him settled in so that as soon as he was comfortable, they would take all of his belongings, beat him up and leave him naked in an alleyway. _

"_Hey, kid! We got breakfast and you've got no body fat!" _

Yeah. Fatten me up so that you can put me in a cage, stick me in an oven and eat me.

_But Mark did have to admit that he was starving. He'd been wandering pathetically around New York for days, scrounging for food and lodgings with the meager amount of money he'd made off a summer job. It had been a lonely time of admitting to himself that he hadn't given any thought to what he'd do once he actually _got _to New York. _

_So, he wandered to the main area of the loft, half-asleep and totally disheveled, to dine with two perfect strangers. _

_When Mark entered the kitchen space, however, he didn't see Benny anywhere. Only Collins was there, piling pancakes and scrambled eggs onto a plate. _

_Mark saw it and forgot all his reservations. _

"_Fuck, I am so hungry!" he said, sitting at the table and attacking the plate barbarically with the nearest fork. _

"_Hey, if you're going to stay here you need to watch your language," said Collins, his face suddenly dark with seriousness. _

_Mark looked up pathetically, his mouth full of egg. "Sorry…" he attempted to say. Instead, he felt his face flush with embarrassment as the contents of his mouth fell back onto the plate. _

_In a second, Collins's serious expression melted away and booming laughter erupted from his mouth. "Don't look so serious, boy! My roommate and I are going to say so much shit that you'll _wish _that was the rule here. Speaking of roommate, he's negotiating a business deal with some guy named Gray. Benny wants to buy this building. As long as he puts heat in here, I'm good with it. So it's just you and me." _

_Mark, still overtaken by hunger, nodded distractedly and became immersed in his plate again. It was a few minutes later that he noticed Collins staring at him from across the table, bemused. The man wasn't eating anything. _

_Suddenly, Mark felt awkward and uncomfortable. "Um…" _

_Collins responded by flashing a comforting smile and putting Mark's plate in the sink. "You seem like a good kid," he said. _

"_How can you tell?" asked Mark. _

"_I don't know. Sometimes you just watch someone's eyes and can tell, you know?" _

_Mark didn't know. But that explained why Collins had been staring at him. "I guess I've never judged a person by their eyes before." _

"_It's how I do," said Collins. He sat down again with a cup of coffee. "So, what's your story, Mark?" _

"_Oh, um…well, I just…I left home." _

"_Where's home?" _

"_Scarsdale." _

"_Why'd you leave?" _

"_I wanted to pursue filmmaking and get out of my fucking house. Get the hell away from my dad. Actually do something I love for once and do it for the rest of my life, without having to answer to anyone or be under anyone's scrutiny." _

_The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Mark had never been open with his feelings, so why had he just spilled all of his deepest thoughts to this man he hardly knew? _

_But then Mark saw Collins's eyes. _

_In those dark pools were endless stores of understanding and compassion. Immediately, Mark knew that he had found one of the few people in the world who would never judge him or put him under scrutiny. The thought made everything inside of him relax. _

_Collins didn't say anything for a few minutes. Oddly, Mark was fine with that. He felt unusually comfortable with Collins's silence, the two of them sipping their coffee thoughtfully. _

"_Do you do that a lot?" Collins finally asked. _

"_Do what?" asked Mark, confused. _

"_Run away. Escape your pain." _

_Mark had never thought about it. But when he thought of how strange it felt to be able to be open with someone, when he thought about the past few years and his obsession with leaving home, he realized it was true. He wasn't even offended by the statement. _

"_Um…I don't know. Never thought about it." _

_Collins nodded. "I think you do. Be careful with that. Pain can help you see a lot. And if you just run away from it every time it comes up, everything leading up to your suffering seems to have been done in vain." _

Wow. This guy's intellect is way over my head.

_Collins, however, didn't seem to think the conversation was out of the ordinary. He took a few more sips of coffee before jumping out of his seat, a huge smile on he face, as he yelled something about remembering that there were waffles. _

_Though he didn't admit it immediately, Mark was touched by Collins's words. Mark would even use those same words much later, speaking them to Roger as the songwriter packed for Santa Fe after Angel's death. _

_Little did Mark know that this was the Collins he would come to know and love over the next few years: the hilarious, contemplative, compassionate anarchist who would forever change his life. _

They hadn't wanted to focus on memories any longer. Now, the ashes of memory were all around them, and they were forced to confront each one.

* * *

Neither Mark nor Roger could deny that they had shared a moment in the wake of the fire. Amid the catastrophe, they had laughed and smiled again—a strange time for that part of their relationship to resurface. But now, between the confusion at having had such a moment, the horror of seeing their loft covered in ash, and the numb grief that carried over from their previous exchange, the two roommates weren't sure what to say to each other.

So they didn't say anything.

The fire team had finished up some hours before. Mark and Roger had spent some time at a local police station, clearing up how the fire had started and what would be done now. Mark had stumbled through an awkward telephone conversation with Maureen and Joanne, who both wanted to come down to the loft to help. But Mark hadn't wanted to see anyone just then.

_How could this happen? _

He wandered through the loft like a man in a dream. He didn't recognize this place. Thin dregs of smoke were rising in his vision. Blackened remains of miscellaneous objects littered the floor. Ash already coated his hands and feet, and black burn marks made their way down the walls and across the floor.

Miraculously, most of the film reels had been saved, even with the fire starting in such close proximity to them. Only the ones touching the ground, most of which had been his newer crap, had been burned. The old films towards the top weren't even singed. The camera was even perfectly fine.

He wasn't sure what to do about the rest. True, they hadn't had much. But the couches were blackened and disgusting, and the whole place reeked of decay. Mark picked up burnt objects only to drop them to the ground again. He was in a daze; a hurt, confused, shocked daze.

A small sound from the corner nearly made Mark jump. He turned to see Roger, cross-legged in the corner by the window, sorting through some of the black crap that had accumulated there.

"One of your scarves," muttered Roger, holding up a mottled, off-color mess without looking in Mark's direction.

A strange pang touched Mark's heart, quickly replaced by numbness. "At least I've got the one I had on," he said.

The conversation died after that. Mark bent down and pulled the charred remnants of a pair of plaid pants out from under the bed. He laid them across the cushions; there was no need to mention it to Roger.

He felt eyes staring at him. When he turned towards Roger, Roger turned away, pretending nothing had happened. But Mark knew what Roger felt. There was so much to say, and yet there was nothing to say. A bridge of hate still separated them.

They continued to pick aimlessly through the wreckage. A few years ago, this would have been cataclysmic, something to test them to the brink. But now, neither could summon the emotion to care as much as they would have. Mark was loitering in his nightmare. He didn't care anymore if he ever woke up.

_Sounds like you're thinking about death again. _

Mark sighed deeply and felt his lungs burn with the heaviness of the air. Suddenly, he felt tired. He looked at the charred remainder of his life around him and was sick of it all; a sickness that sank down into his gut. He let himself fall onto the ruined couch.

Roger looked over his shoulder briefly at the sound, then went back to attending the corner.

_Do you do that a lot? _

_What? _

_Run away. Escape your pain. _

Mark sank deeper into the cushions, holding his head as a massive headache started to pound against his temple. He wished Collins could stand here and see this devastation. Maybe the anarchist would've understood if he'd seen something like this. Maybe he would've seen that at some point, there isn't pain to escape. Mark had run away from it for so long that it didn't even register anymore. Pain was something deep inside of him, and now all it could do was make him weary and indifferent.

Mark was aware of Roger standing. He was even aware of Roger walking towards him. But he really had nothing to say to Roger, and expected the songwriter to keep walking right past the couch.

He didn't expect Roger to come quietly over and sit beside him.

They sat a few inches apart, awkward as preteens on a first date. Finally, Roger cleared his throat, forcing Mark to glance his way.

"Um…I'm sorry."

Mark sat up a little straighter, regarding Roger with interesting now. To his surprise, Roger held out a tattered scrap of paper, placing it in Mark's unfeeling hands.

"I'm so sorry."

Roger stood quickly and strode away. Mark heard the click of a door and knew that Roger had locked himself in a bedroom.

The filmmaker looked at the shredded, thin paper that crumbled in his fingers. At first, he could barely distinguish anything beyond the burnt, folded edges.

But, when Mark really looked at it, he found that the fire hadn't managed to reach a small segment of the photograph, a portion of the upper middle. Two smiling faces were discolored and bordered with black.

For the first time in weeks, Mark got the urge to cry his heart out.


	8. Chapter 7: Before the Virus Takes Hold

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Chapter Seven

"Before the Virus Takes Hold"

Roger

The fire must have burned away everything in the apartment that made noise, because, now, only silence sat between the four charred walls. The flames had taken only seconds to change the entire tenor of the loft. Instead of looking like a sad collage of memories, it looked like the rest of their lives—_like a fucking war zone._

If only the flames hadn't been doused so quickly, perhaps it might have swept through them also, and eradicated the memories that still lingered in their hearts.

When Roger had woken up just after one in the afternoon, he'd crept through the loft breathing in the air still tainted with smoke. Each time he turned a corner he held his breath, and let it out only when he saw that the room was empty.

He wanted to believe that he was looking for Mark, hoping that he would be there, but he knew that was a lie. He was relieved not to have to deal with the uncomfortable silences, and the even more awkward words.

The divide between them had been dug one word at a time, one breath at a time, and one silence at a time; before they knew it, an intraversable chasm had existed.

He lifted himself from the couch and wandered into the kitchen. He rummaged through the cabinets. He knew that Mark wouldn't have bought any food, but he hoped that there would be something he could eat.

_Who did I piss off to have such bad karma?_ Roger grumbled when he found that there was nothing edible in their entire kitchen.

He didn't have the energy to go out and buy food. It wasn't that he was tired, so much as he was weary.

He considered going to lie back down, but it didn't seem worth the energy to walk all the way back to the bedroom; he sat down on the window seat and rested his head against the glass.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his reflection. His face seemed to have been painted in shades of gray, his gray eyes were set deep under gray brows, framed by gray cheeks. Everything was gray except for a small spark of crimson sitting on his cheekbone.

Panic rose up inside of him and he raced to the mirror. It should have stunned him to see his face in color again, but he hardly noticed, he was too focused on the small red scab.

It wasn't painful to the touch.

He didn't remember cutting himself.

It wasn't a burn from the fire.

He didn't remember noticing it the day before.

Roger bit his lip and turned away from the mirror. If he couldn't see the reality, perhaps the reality would cease to exist. But, no matter how tightly he closed his eyes, he could still feel the mark on his cheek.

There were words in his ears, echoes of voices long since gone now.

_We've got AIDS._

_I'm sorry, Mr. Davis. _

_What does that mean, Roger?_

_I don't know how long you'll live. It might be years._

_Take your AZT._

_There are certain warning signs you have to watch for, secondary infections that could alert us that we're loosing ground against the disease._

_Roger, you can't live your life like you're dying!_

_They're called opportunistic infections, things like staph infections, toxoplasmosis, and most commonly KS lesions. _

_We've got AIDS._

He'd hadn't been doing well, but at least he'd been holding all the pieces of his life together as best as he could. He had managed to get out of bed every day, leave the apartment, talk to people occasionally.

And in one fatal moment, everything came crashing back down on him. He was right back where he had been so many years ago. The depression, the anger, the madness, all the emotions he'd managed to control, were part of him again.

The only way he'd managed to survive the nightmare of the reality of his own death, was through suppression. It wasn't that he didn't think about it every day, it was that he didn't acknowledge it.

Living with AIDS was like… like living with Mark. It was a part of him, but a part of him that he avoided, a part of him he didn't speak to unless something insane happened…like the apartment burning down.

A part of him he was going to have to come to terms with.

"Roger?"

He didn't want to open his eyes. The voice was soft and loving, but he knew it was a lie. That voice belonged in a grave along with the woman he loved.

"Roger?"

There were hands on his cheeks. Real hands. Warm, living hands. He couldn't even find the presence of mind to speak her name, but his eyes opened and her soft smile filled him until he was certain his heart would burst.

"Hush." She whispered and pressed her forehead to his. He was glad that she didn't speak, because he didn't think he could force words past the lump in his throat.

He knew she was only a delusion, but he took comfort from her presence all the same. He let her wrap him up in her arms. He let her brush the hair away from his face. He let her breathe softly in his ear.

He let himself drown in her presence.

"Does it hurt?" He finally asked.

She shook her head softly, almost imperceptibly. "No."

He closed his eyes again, thinking that she would now vanish, but he could still feel a hand on his shoulder.

"Roger?"

Here was another voice that belonged in memory only. It was Mark's voice… or at least the way Mark's voice had been when they had spoken as friends instead of enemies.

"Mark?"

"You okay?"

Roger paused wondering how he could answer that question. "No… I'm not okay because… because… we're not okay…"

"We're okay." Mark said.

"We're not." Roger replied, and reached up to grab Mark by the shoulder. "We're not okay and it's all my fault. I didn't mean for it to happen like this. I thought that if I pushed you away it would hurt less. Looking at you, I remember the way things used to be and it kills me. I thought that if I closed myself off then no one would have to hurt like I had. I… I'm sorry…"

Mark closed his soft eyes and smiled. "We're okay." He repeated.

Roger reached out to embrace him, but Mark was gone.

He looked around, confused, and saw Mark standing in the doorway, his hand frozen in the motion of unwrapping his scarf. The Mark who had comforted him had been only a part of his imagination, and he was again stuck with the Mark who was a stranger.

"You okay?" Mark asked, finally. Roger could tell that the words were strange and awkward in his mouth.

Roger turned his head to look up at Mark, but didn't say anything.

"Roger… what did you do to your face…"


	9. Chapter 8: The One of Us to Survive

Chapter 8

"The One of Us to Survive"

Mark

Roger turned away the moment the words were out of Mark's mouth. "Nothing," the songwriter said. "Cut."

But Mark had seen those scabs before. At least, he thought he had. "Is that a…"

"God fucking damn, Mark, get out of my face."

Mark set his teeth. He wrapped the scarf fully around his neck and walked away, his face burning with anger. He went out the door and down the stairs, keeping his eyes fixed on the old, decaying, graffiti-covered walls. Each step he took rang hollow through the stairwell.

But in his mind's eye, he only saw a single red lesion.

It followed him out the door and into the streets, a red dot in the middle of the cityscape. He thought he saw it on everyone's faces. Hell, maybe he _did _see it on some of their faces.

As he wandered, he forgot where he was going. He found himself turning around, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk and staring back towards the loft. Behind the buildings and corners and far-off sky, he pictured the windows to the loft, and Roger inside with a lesion on his face.

_Roger is dying. _

Suddenly, Mark didn't want to lose Roger, even Roger the stranger. He wasn't ready to sit silently in front of another tombstone. He turned and ran back towards the loft.

When Mark arrived at the doorstep, he was surprised to find that a huge laundry basket of items had been left there—canned food, cereal, supplies, and a lot of miscellaneous crap. A card was perched on top, a plain white, cheap card with a smiley face and a sad face on the cover. Mark reached down and opened it.

_Hey sweethearts. We put together this stuff to help you out. We're so sorry about what happened, we wish we could help more. The loft had so many memories for all of us. _

_We love you both, and we miss you. _

_Maureen & Joanne_

Mark laid the card back down. His face felt wet—he reached up and touched it, only to find that there were tears in his eyes.

_I don't cry anymore. That's weird. _

He assumed Maureen and Joanne had left everything while he had been gone, and that Roger hadn't opened the door. He imagined Roger holed up in the bathroom, staring at his face, listening to the knocks on the door as though they were the sound of a dying heartbeat.

It took all his strength to heave the full basket in his arms and walk through the door with it. Then he left it unceremoniously by the doorway and ran straight to Roger's room.

His steps slowed at the doorway. Roger was sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring down at his empty arms as though they should be holding something. Mark's eyes drifted to Roger's face. His eyes were hollow, as though looking at the lesion had drained them.

"That was fast," Roger mumbled, still looking at his hands. At his hands and wrists.

Mark swallowed the first words that rose to his throat. _Enough fighting, _he thought. "I know what that is on your face," he said.

"You would know. You've seen them before too. On Angel. On Collins. On her. She got one right by her mouth, it looked like a cold sore, like smudged lipstick. But I don't wear lipstick."

The words were so arbitrary that Mark wondered if Roger was drunk. But the air was clean; it didn't reek of alcohol.

"What do you want, Mark?"

_I want you to be you again, before you die. _

"Um…"

"_We're not okay and it's all my fault. I didn't mean for it to happen like this. I thought that if I pushed you away it would hurt less. Looking at you, I remember the way things used to be and it kills me."_

Roger didn't meet Mark's eyes. Mark spoke anyway.

"I want you to talk to me," he said. "Like you were talking to the invisible me. Just…talk to me as though I'm not here."

In response, Roger raised his wrists. Mark couldn't read the songwriter's deadpan expression.

"If I cut these," said Roger. "Would it be like letting out a flood of poison?"

Mark walked slowly to the bed, knowing that every step was dangerous. He sat silently on the bed, listening to the springs creak as he lowered himself into Roger's same position, about a foot away from his roommate.

Roger continued softly. "There's nothing to live for anymore, Mark. And it's so quick…"

Mark took a deep breath.

"I know," said the filmmaker. "I've thought about it too."

Roger raised his eyes sharply. "You said you hadn't."

"I lied. But I'm weak too. I'm a coward."

Somehow, it felt good to admit it. Mark felt as though he was meeting himself for the first time, as though he was seeing himself through Roger's eyes. "I've been the worst kind of coward," he said. "The kind who denies everything."

Roger was quiet. He looked back down at his wrist, turning them over and over, watching the movement of his veins.

"Don't do it to yourself, Roger."

Roger curled his fists in. His voice was a whisper when he spoke. "Why?"

"Because I should've told you not to a long time ago. I should've told you not to sell the guitar. I should've told you a lot of things."

"We just don't tell each other things anymore. You're not the same person, Mark."

"And are you, Roger?"

They both knew the answer.

"Who knocked on the door?" asked Roger.

It wasn't an attempt to change the subject; it was just an arbitrary wondering.

"Maureen and Joanne," answered Mark. "They left some stuff to help us out."

Roger nodded. "You know, for a minute I thought it was Mimi. It was so much like her knock, like her knock that first night she came in here. I almost ran to go answer it. Then I stopped myself.

"Sometimes I forget Maureen and Joanne. Sometimes I can't even see their faces; they all look like versions of Mimi. It's like…part of myself that I can't remember."

Mark sighed. He hadn't felt this way in far too long. He hadn't felt like Mark Cohen, the one who identified himself in large part by Roger Davis's friendship. Roger's voice, so full of honesty, was almost alien.

Hesitantly, Mark reached out and touched Roger's wrists. He enclosed his palms around them, pale white skin against weak, thinning skin.

"We can see them again," said Mark, not breaking the contact. "We can have a lot of things again.

"We can be okay, Roger."

Roger bit his lip. He lifted his fingers upward, gently giving Mark's wrists a squeeze before drawing his arms away and wrapping them around his stomach.

"I'm going to die."

Roger sounded like a little boy. This night, he was the one with innocence; he was so young, and so helpless. He was too young to die. How could he leave just when he was coming back to life?

Mark stared at the lesion on Roger's face, the telltale sign of death. "Yes," he said. "You are. We can't avoid that anymore. But we can live just to die either. It'll be okay, see, because wherever you go, that's where Mimi is. There isn't much to leave behind here, Roger."

"Just you."

Their eyes met in a stare that lasted too long. Maybe this was what they had been avoiding all along. Maybe this was where all the pain had stemmed from; this reality, something they could have gone to their graves without realizing.

"Yeah," said Mark. "Just me. But I'm here for now. So really…it's okay. Because I'm here until you go, and then Mimi will be there waiting for you when you leave. It won't be so bad."

"And you, Mark? What do you think about it all?"

_I've been thinking about it so long that I don't even know what I feel anymore. _

"I just think we should've had this conversation a long time ago," said Mark. "It would've saved us a lot of fighting."

"It would've saved the loft."

Mark looked around. The fire hadn't spread much to the bedrooms, so this was still relatively intact. "Maybe the loft saved us," he said.

Roger locked eyes with him.

Then, Roger started laughing.

A slow chuckle became a full laugh, and it ended up with Roger splayed across the bed with no sound coming from his mouth.

"What?" asked Mark.

"You…you!" Roger barely choked out the words as he writhed.

"What! What the fuck did I say!"

"_The loft saved us!!!" _

"Hey…come on, it wasn't that funny…"

"You pulled that out of a fucking movie! No one says stuff like that! Goddamn..." Roger collapsed, incapacitated.

Mark felt his mouth twitching even as his eyes were misted over with tears. He hadn't seen Roger laugh in so long. "That wasn't even funny. You're just looking for an excuse to laugh!"

_Can you blame him? _

_I want to laugh too. _

The sight of Roger was ridiculous. Just a moment ago, he had been contemplating the blood rushing through his veins, picturing it spilled across the floor. Now he was laughing, and his laughter was contagious.

Down the stairwell and into the other apartments, people heard the sound of laughter echoing through the paper-thin walls. It had been a common occurrence years ago, but now it was unfamiliar, coming from a loft that had been filled with flames only a few days before.

And yet, it was welcome—welcome as sunlight, welcome as fresh air in a smoke-filled room. It was the sound of life.


	10. Chapter 9: Time Flies, Time Dies

Chapter Nine

"Time Flies, Time Dies"

Roger

He missed his guitar.

Never before had the songs in his head had to remain… just that… in his head.

_Pacing floors of counted time._

_Hands apart we stand beside._

_The shivering night comes rolling in_

_And now the nightmare may begin._

In every argument, there is one statement, which, at the time it is uttered, seems innocuous enough, but after the argument is over, it eats away at you. Mark and Roger had been arguing on and off for near an hour, and that statement had yet to be uttered. Roger steeled himself for the blow.

"It doesn't matter." Roger whispered, the fight had made him too tired to raise his voice anymore.

He turned his face to the window so that when his tired eyes slid out of focus, he could watch the neon lights become a river, instead of watch Mark's expression grow more dour.

Mark sighed. Even with his back turned, Roger knew that the filmmaker was leaning against the counter, expressing his frustration by raking his fingers through his short hair.

"It's just a doctor's appointment. You sitting in the waiting room isn't going to change the diagnosis, you know?"

The silence rose up between them like a cobra, ready to inject their newfound peace with poison.

Here it was; that one fatal remark was coming now. The way Mark's breathing slowed as he sharpened the words on his tongue was a dead give away.

Sometimes, Roger wished he didn't know the other man so well.

"Don't you think you've been through enough alone?" Mark muttered.

The action of standing made him dizzy, but the lightheadedness made his mind a little bit clearer. He gripped the back of the couch so he wouldn't stumble as he made his way over to Mark.

"No matter how much you want to be there for me, Mark. You can't. There are some things that I have to do alone."

He reached out and clutched Mark's shoulder so he could stare deeply into the other man's eyes and touch the fragile strength within him.

"And dying is one of them."

The filmmaker's grip around the songwriter's shoulder was not as firm. "Are you scared?"

"No." Roger lied.

"Then, neither am I."

They stood on even ground at last; holding up equally bitter smiles up with lies.

_Screaming lies of kerosene_

_Bitter tears of silver sheen_

_And weak with all the words unsaid._

_Unfallen tears inside my head._

* * *

"I want you to run a CBC on the patient in exam room one. Her PT is way too long, I want to check for thrombocytopenia." The doctor backed into the exam room, speaking rapidly to a nurse who was standing in the hallway.

As her back was facing him, Roger's first assessment of the young woman was the fact that she had an amazing ass, even through her lab coat.

"Room number three needs a chem-7 done, the guy has serious diabetes complications and I can't believe some idiot hasn't run it before! And the punk in room four needs a tox screen before we can give him anything stronger for the orbital fracture. The history suggests he's done everything known to man, the kid's so stoned as it is, he won't need painkillers for another couple hours. Until the tox screen is back don't give him anything. I don't want to deal with _another_ drug interaction today."

She snapped the door shut and turned to face Roger. She glanced down at his chart, chewing on her bottom lip as she skimmed over his extensive medical history trying to locate his name.

His second assessment of the woman was that she was far too young to have actually graduated med school.

"Mr. Davis." She said, and looked up at him smiling. "How're we doing today?"

He wished that she had asked the question before she had made eye contact with him.

Her eyes were the same deep, chocolate brown as Mimi's had been and for several seconds he was so struck that he was unable to form words. "Fine." He managed.

"Ah, and if you were fine you wouldn't be here." She chuckled as she pulled two latex gloves from a box and pulled them onto her hands. "They should make these in little kids sizes." She held up her hands to show him that the gloves were about a half-inch too long on each of her fingers.

He couldn't help but smile.

"Now, it says you're HIV positive?" The doctor glanced down at his chart again.

"Yeah." His smile melted.

She stood in front of him and took his face in her hands, which were so small that as she cupped his cheek in her palm, her fingers barely reached his cheekbone. "So you're here for this?" She smoothed her forefinger over the lesion on his cheek.

"Yeah."

She released his face gently and stripped off her gloves, tossing them into the biohazard bin. "Well, Mr. Davis, I don't know why you're here, we both know exactly what that is, and it's not a bruise."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"How long have you been resistant to the AZT?" She leaned against the counter and fixed him with a look of genuine care.

Roger shrugged. "A couple months now, I guess."

"I have to be honest with you, it isn't good news. The blood draw the nurse did, shows that your CD4 lymphocytes—white blood cells that help you fight off infection—are very low." She raised those doe-brown eyes to stare at him. "The KS lesion is—"

"An opportunistic infection. I know."

She pulled a stool out from underneath the cabinet with her foot, and sat down. "So, you know the prognosis."

He never answered.

He never had to.

"Kaposi's Sarcoma generally wouldn't kill you, but with the CD4 count, I can tell you that it's already spread. Sometimes chemotherapy is effective against it, but in your case, I wouldn't advise it, it would only further depress your immune system and cause the KS to spread faster. There are antiretroviral therapies that are helpful in some cases…"

"Not in mine?"

"It's… unlikely. Look, as a doctor, I'm not supposed to leave the treatment options in your hands, but, this really has to be your decision. Any treatment I could give you would probably not give you anymore time. I'm sorry."

Her face was filled with a delicate sympathy.

Roger felt strangely at ease. It was so comforting to finally know that the guessing game was finally at an end.

"How long do I have?"

"A couple months. It depends on how fast the KS spreads, or if you develop any other opportunistic infections. I'd say between two and six months. You can speak with one of our councilors before you leave, if you want."

Roger smiled at her. "I'm fine. Someone's waiting for me."

* * *

"Hey." A familiar voice hailed him the moment he stepped out the front door of the clinic.

Roger whirled and found Mark leaning against a light pole, trying to look casual, and failing miserably.

"Thought I told you not to come." Roger laughed.

"You said not to wait in the waiting room, nothing about waiting in the street." Mark replied.

Roger slung his arm around his best friend. "You know what? I'm okay with it."

"I'm not."

Roger smiled and pulled Mark closer. "All things with time."

He didn't mention how little of that he had left.

_Ending seconds of delusion_

_Running from sick confusion_

_One silent path left to tread_

_Leave me now, left for dead_


	11. Chapter 10: Use Your guitar

Chapter 10

"Use Your Guitar"

Mark

Mark knew when Roger walked out the door for the appointment that the songwriter would be gone for the better part of the day. The hours had to be used wisely.

The beginning of the day was spent in Maureen and Joanne's company, as the three of them finished cleaning the loft. It was left sanitized and organized. The scars were still there, though, beneath the façade. An ugly burn mark climbed up one of the walls, charred chips of wall material crumbling off and littering the ground. The couch remained ruined. However, everything else sat in place as though the fire had never happened. The ash had been swept away.

Maureen and Joanne had been there all day; now, three hours before Mark left to meet Roger, they were heading out the door. They faced Mark in the doorframe. Joanne was like midnight in the dark, inconsistent light of the stairwell; Maureen was like a dim angel, her beautiful smile saving Mark one last time.

"I'm glad you called us," said Maureen, draping a thin white sweater over her shoulders. "I'm proud of you."

"I needed to wake up at some point," replied Mark.

"You and Roger both did," said Joanne. Her voice was scolding as usual, but her black eyes were concerned, and her soft lips curled into a smile that took the sting from her words. "Did the things we left you help?"

Mark thought of his fully stocked refrigerator and the small batch of new clothing—not exactly his style—lining his closet. "Hell yes," he said softly. A smile had crept onto his face without him even realizing it.

"I want to see Roger," said Maureen. "I miss him like hell, baby! When can we see him? I wish we could see his face when you show him the loft."

Mark sighed. "You both have been so great dealing with all our shit. You'll see him soon, I promise. We'll be a family again."

Joanne nodded and adjusted her shoulder bag. Maureen's eyes filled with tears.

"I miss that so much," she sobbed. "I miss being a family…"

Mark and Joanne both closed on Maureen; she became the trembling center of their embrace. Mark drank in the feeling of comforting another. He rested his head against Maureen's soft brown curls and rubbed Joanne's shoulder blade.

"Soon," he whispered, thinking of Angel, Mimi, and Collins somewhere far away.

"Soon we'll be a family again."

* * *

Mark made one stop that day. He set out and did what he needed to do, off in a run down pawn shop some blocks away, and then returned to the loft for a little while.

He walked in and was surprised by the pristine cleanliness of the place. The apartment he saw brought back memories; it was a place he recognized again, even though the loft was usually much dirtier than this. He had to picture the haphazard clothes strewn across the ground, the sheet music and posters and camera equipment. It was, for the most part, neatly put away at the moment. Mark's lonely projector sat in a far corner.

Roger may not have been there, but Mark could _feel _Roger. He saw Roger at the table, with a cheap mug and cheaper coffee, reading the newspaper—usually the comics section before the actual news. He heard Roger strumming his guitar from the couch, cursing when he hit the wrong note or a string wasn't tuned. Roger's scent was even in the air. It was the smell of leather and shampoo, of wood and alcohol and breathing.

But when a person dies, can they still be felt?

Mark pressed his eyes hard, trying to see Mimi sitting casually on the table or smoking on the couch. He stared at the door, trying to hear Collins's booming voice and see the anarchist's megawatt smile.

They weren't there. Angel's bright Santa suit danced around the loft as though in a dream; they was no reality to it, no substance. Just loss and memory.

_Eventually, we all move on and let go. _

Eventually, Roger's presence wouldn't be here anymore.

Mark bit his lip. He turned and strode out the door. He needed to see Roger before he went insane.

* * *

"You know what? I'm okay with it."

Mark sank into Roger's arm, the familiar touch bracing his shoulder. "I'm not," he said.

The loft's sense of alienation had stayed with him. He was scared.

Roger pulled Mark closer, and Mark put his own arm around Roger's shoulders. His hand sank naturally into the black leather.

"All things with time."

How much time?

Mark wasn't even aware that he was holding onto Roger with a death grip, the two of them pressed so tightly together that it was difficult to walk. He finally noticed it when Roger gave him an easy smile and pulled away just a centimeter.

As they walked back down the street, Mark cast glances at Roger's face. The songwriter was looking up at the sky and rooftops. His face was tilted into the sun, the broad smile of peace lit even among the shadows of skyscrapers. The hand that wasn't on Mark was tucked casually into a pocket—such a meaningless gesture, but bearing the nonchalance of youth and life. Surely this man would live forever. In the patchy light, you could hardly even see the lesion.

They disengaged when they reached the base of the apartment complex. Roger held the door open for Mark and followed the filmmaker up the stairs.

"Didn't we want a dog at one point?" Roger wondered blithely, lost in his own world.

Mark remembered their plots, all of the ways they had come up with for sneaking a dog into the apartment—including putting one into a fifteen-gallon tank, since pets that fit in them were allowed. "Yeah," he said. "That would've been chaos, we can't even feed ourselves."

"Can we go onto the roof tonight?"

"Sure. I'd like that."

"There's a bunch of stuff I want to do. You know I haven't been to the bar where I met April since she died? I want to go back. I want to play a song for her or something. I want to sing 'Your Eyes' for Mimi over and over until it bugs you like Musetta's Waltz does."

"_Nothing _can bug me like Musetta's Waltz."

They had arrived at the door. Mark swept it back, and a rush of air, perfumed with Lysol, hit his face. He turned to watch Roger's expression.

Roger walked in as though in a daze. "Holy shit…" he said, looking from the cleared tabletops to the swept-and-polished floor. "Did you do this?!"

"Maureen and Joanne helped. They want to see you, Rog."

"I want to see them too. I'll call them tonight and we'll do lunch tomorrow."

Suddenly, everything seemed so easy for Roger. Walking out the door. Making plans. Interacting with friends. Living, breathing. It was the beauty of acceptance, but Mark couldn't seem to find it for himself.

Roger's eyes were wandering all over. They lingered on the window, left open so that the room would air out. The sound of car horns and the smell of city air drifted in. The songwriter had walked well into the loft and looked over to the corner, to the projector, and his gaze swept the ceiling and the floor.

Mark stayed in the doorway, leaning into the frame. He noticed that the only thing Roger didn't look at was the couch—one of the few reminders of the fire.

_Look at the couch. I need you to look at the couch. _

Mark had to restrain himself from grabbing Roger's head and forcing it to face the couch.

Finally, Roger turned, every movement as controlled and steady as a slow motion film. Mark watched his roommate's eyes connect with the black case that lay casually against the black cushions.

"What the…"

Roger rushed over, sinking onto the couch and sending up a rush of ash. He dragged the case onto his lap and ran his hand over it, as though he didn't actually believe the guitar was inside.

Mark couldn't help but smile. Buying back the guitar had been the perfect thing; this moment saved his day from going to hell.

Roger looked up at Mark. "You?" he asked.

Mark's smile widened. "Cost a bitchload to get it back."

Roger didn't need to say thank you. He dove in with a child's eagerness, opening the case as though it were the wrapping on a Christmas gift. Inside was his baby—still perfect, with its pristine tan varnish and permanently out-of-tune strings.

While Roger got the guitar into position, Mark wandered over and sat by his best friend on the couch. The first few chords were dissonant; Roger regarded them with a shake of the head and turned the tuning pegs.

It seemed this loft had been built for music. When the strings began to harmonize, the sound reverberated from the burned walls, coming back to the couch with perfect acoustic resonance. Mark couldn't believe they had been able to stand the silence for so long.

"Ending seconds of delusion," Roger muttered, stringing the words into a loose tune. "Running from sick confusion…one silent path left to tread, leave me now, left for dead…"

The songwriter looked up at the ceiling, muting the guitar strings with his hand. "Last stanza," he said.

"Light will tremble and I'll be home…Tonight, tonight we're not alone…Bled for you with viral eyes… together as we said goodbye."

The words were coming, but the tune was elusive and changing. He closed his eyes and lapsed into a verse of "Your Eyes," his own eyes shut as the music overwhelmed him.

Mark felt a familiar weight in his hand and realized that his fingers had drifted to the coffee table—to his camera. He began to film. He felt that he could only see Roger through a lens right now; hearing this song in reality would be too much.

Roger started the song softly, just musing, but then his voice climbed. His fingers struck the chords furiously, his eyes shut so tightly that wrinkles ran back across his face.

"How'd I let you slip away, when I'm longing so to hold you? Now I'd die for one more day, 'cause there's something I should've told you, there's something I should've told you…when I looked into your eyes.

"_Why does distance make us wise? _You were the song all along! And before the song dies…I should tell you, I should tell you; I have always loved you…

"You can see it in my eyes."

Mark thought Roger would say the last word now; he imagined Roger would build up the crescendo and shout her name. But it didn't happen. The camera hovered expectantly…and the song died down.

When he said her name, it was a whisper. His expression softened and he smiled.

"Mimi."

Roger looked over at Mark, who lowered the camera lens. They shared a glance. Roger was smiling and at ease; Mark was cryptic, unreadable.

"She's here," said Roger. He looked around, from the table to the window. "I feel her. I see her."

Mark felt everything inside of him seize up. He hadn't felt anyone; strangely, there was a sense of betrayal, as though no one had cared to visit him. "How?" he asked.

"I haven't felt her in months. She's been gone. I'd lie in bed and feel cold, or I'd look over and the window would be shut when I felt it should be open. But I feel her now. Every so often she reminds me that she's still here. Once I join her, she won't come back anymore."

Neither Mark nor Roger was religious. But neither could deny that their friends were somewhere, and that it didn't take any explanation, religious or atheist, to believe that love could endure past death.

Mark pictured Angel staying in the loft, waiting by the doorway until Collins joined her. He saw Mimi now, waiting for Roger.

_Who will wait for me?  
_

He looked down at the camera in his hand, longing to cover his eyes with the lens again.

Roger noticed Mark's silence. He offered a smile, his face glowing in the half-light of sunset.

"Give me that," he said.

Mark felt the camera being lifted from his hands. He felt Roger move closer, and soon, his hands were awkwardly gripping the Fender guitar.

"I'm going to teach you a song," said Roger, arranging Mark's fingers on the fingerboard.

"Here's your first note."

The guitar didn't have the same sound when Mark played it; the strings were weak and scratchy, easing into his inexperienced hands. But the notes came all the same.

One, then another, then the first line of Musetta's Waltz.

Roger's words practically spoke through the music: he would wait here, Mimi's hands in his, until Mark joined them.

THE END


End file.
